My Son’s Waltz
The spirit in your legs
Could make an old man dizzy;
But I carry on instead:
Such mirth was never easy.
We danced to old records
Caked with dust from the shelf,
And though you watched for mother
Our joy replayed itself.
My worn hands carried
Unscathed hand, finger, knuckle;
At every new beginning buried
Your head against my buckle.
You smiled at every pirouette,
Mother worn from tracking dirt,
I’ll never forget those steps,
Your hand grasped tight to my shirt.